Home is Where Death Meets You
by ameliajokermoriarty
Summary: Three years after the fall and Sherlock finds himself wondering what all of it meant. He finds himself unable to answer questions about his own psyche. When he returns back to the land of the living, he finds a rather unexpected truth about himself. Sheriarty. Jimlock.
1. Breathing Once More

Sherlock stood there, looking over the edge of the hospital, down to the street below, where he had taken his "deadly" fall. How long had it been since that moment? Since Moriarty had forced him to chose between his own life or that of his friends. Sherlock was lucky that Molly had helped him, that Moriarty had not seen her as a real threat. However, even now as he stood on the rooftop of 's, he found it hard to think back to the fall. His reasoning for this was illogical and he hated himself for allowing any emotion to stop him from thinking. He was upset over John, knowing that his only true friend thought that he was dead and was mourning over a false body. However, Sherlock realized that nothing could be done, that he would need to leave John in this state for a while until the time was right. What truly bothered Sherlock was the emotion he felt over this very spot. The spot where Jim Moriarty had pulled a gun out of his coat and shot himself, so that Sherlock had no choice but to jump off the building. Sherlock remembered everything so vividly, every last detail of Moriarty's final action etched into his mind, as if Moriarty had sewn it there himself. Sherlock felt a pain of loss. The loss of a worthy adversary. Sherlock hated himself for thinking this, knowing that the world was better off with this man buried 6 feet underground, but a small part of him, was screaming and begging for Moriarty to come back. He was the only other person who had matched so well with Sherlock. Had the same intellectual level of understanding. Provided a challenge. Sherlock now often found himself pondering over one of the first things Moriarty had ever said to him. That they were made for each other. Sherlock thought nothing of it when he had first heard, just a fleeting thought that should have been easily forgotten. However it had stuck stuck with Sherlock, as if somehow his subconscious knew that he would require it for later. The more Sherlock thought about it, the more he realized how right Moriarty had been, and this frightened Sherlock. It frightened him because he now seemed to truly understand how alone he actually was. Of course now he was alone, he was pretending to be dead, but even with John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly and all the other insignificant people, he found himself growing bored easily, needing something to sustain him. Moriarty had been the person. Right from the moment of Carl Powers' death, he had been the only one who could give Sherlock a challenge and ensure that for once in his life, Sherlock Holmes was not bored.  
That was why Sherlock was here, on the roof top of St. Bart's. He, just like his friends, was mourning. However instead of mourning the loss of a friend, he was mourning the loss of a foe. Sherlock came up here, when thoughts of his foe became too pressing for his mind to bare. He was finding himself unable to think clearly, unable to understand what was happening to him. For some reason, he found that coming back to 's and reliving the fall to be the best way to calm his mind. Now how did it calm his mind exactly? Sherlock wasn't quite sure. He found it hard to look back on the fall and yet it somehow brought his mind to ease. Sherlock knew that this was something he had to figure out, something he had to deduce. Sherlock would find himself trying to think about it at nights, never allowing his mind to rest and would spend night after night pondering why it caused all of these mixed emotions, something Sherlock was not extremely fond of. Of course this bothered Sherlock to no end. He was a man famous for being able to see through everything and everyone in seconds and yet he couldn't figure out something as simple as this. At least it should have been simple.  
Sherlock was now sitting down, letting his leg dangle off the edge of the building. This visit to St. Bart's did anything but put his mind at ease. Sherlock felt different, like he had to be wary. But of what? Everyone thought he was dead so what did he have to worry about? All he had to do was make sure that nothing horrible happened to the people he cared about. So why was he expecting something to happen. Why was this? Sherlock could not honestly give you an answer. He would suggest paranoia, but he wasn't idiotic enough to get paranoid. Sherlock was never wrong, so he knew something was going to happen. Something that would cause a change. Sherlock stood up and looked down, seeming to peer down in oblivion itself and he could swear that there was the sound of people speaking. It was too close to be anybody down on the street. Too clear. Sherlock turned around, but he did not see anybody on the rooftop with him. The voices began to get louder, as off they were moving closer to him. Sherlock couldn't understand. It seemed as though this place made him unable to deduce correctly. Letting his emotions guide him here, was beginning to become dangerous. Sherlock listened to the voices as they grew louder. They almost sound like they were speaking and their voices were echoing off of metal. This meant that the voices were a recording. Coming out of a speaker that wasn't very high quality. However there was no speaker that Sherlock could find. As Sherlock listened to the voices, his eyes widened in realization. It was the conversation he had with Moriarty... right before the fall. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.  
"Seldom have we had a more pleasant conversation." a voice said from behind him.  
Sherlock whipped around to find the owner of the voice, but there was nobody there. Sherlock's feelings about being wary turned out to be correct when he felt something sharp pierce his neck, quickly deducing it was a needle with a very strong sedative inside of it. Sherlock felt himself growing drowsy, vision beginning to black out.  
"You've really grown stupid over the past 3 years,Sherlock." the voice sighed. Sherlock faded into unconsciousness.  
When Sherlock finally awoke from his drug induced sleep, he was only welcomed to more darkness. Sherlock sat up quickly, only to get a headache. Sherlock gripped his head in pain and tried to piece together what had happened. He could only remember some things. The voices...then the needle. Sherlock realized that he might have been kidnapped by whoever it was that had injected the sedative. Sherlock stood up off of the bed that he had been placed in, surprised by the lack of restraints. The room smelt of perfume and air freshener. Mostly feminine scents made up of flowers and various spices such as jasmine. Easy enough for him to discover that he was being held captive by a woman. However the floral scents suggested that this woman wasn't very dangerous at all, that in fact she was quite passive and awkward seeing as the smell was not overpowering. Sherlock felt the sheets on the bed, railing that it was quilted and that it had multiple pillows in it. Sherlock walked out of the room quickly.  
"Molly!" he called. Easy enough to figure out that it was Molly's flat that he was currently in.  
"Oh good, you're up. What the hell happened?" Molly asked, appearing from around the corner.  
"I could ask you the same thing. Why am I currently in your flat?" Sherlock asked.  
"I wen up onto the roof for some fresh air and you were just lying there unconscious. I obviously couldn't leave you there, unless you wanted people to find out that you were still alive." Molly said.  
"I was drugged." Sherlock stated.  
"By who?" Molly asked bewildered.  
"Not entirely sure yet Molly." Sherlock said, before quickly leaving her flat.  
Sherlock walked out onto the streets looking around before walking towards 221B Baker Street. It was time to see John. To tell him everything. Sherlock didn't expect it to go over well. In fact, he expected to be hit and beaten by John for causing him so much grief. Sherlock walked right into the building to see . She looked up at him, tearing her eyes away from the plants she had been watering. She didn't make any exclamation of surprise, but just gave Sherlock a soft smile.  
"It's about bloody time you got back! Get on upstairs! John and I have been waiting 3 years for you to come home! Go apologize to him and hope he forgives you. I'll make you boys some tea."  
"Thank you, ." Sherlock smiled.  
Sherlock wasn't the least bit surprised by . She was not a stupid woman and Sherlock was quite glad that she was so prepared for his homecoming, seeing as Sherlock knew that John would not be so welcoming. Sherlock walked up the creaking stairs to 221B and stepped into the flat. Nothing had changed in the past 3 years. None of his things had been moved, and they had been taken very well care of and he could hear John moving around upstairs. Sherlock walked over to where his violin lay. He picked it up and held the bow in his hands and began to play the overture from Rossini's opera "La Gazza Ladra" otherwise known as The Theiving Magpie. When he heard the footsteps upstairs stop, Sherlock couldn't help but smile to himself. He was home.


	2. Welcome Home

John froze in his room where he had been pacing around. The violin had started playing and John at first thought that it was his mind playing a trick on him, like it had so many times over these past three years. However, when it didn't stop, John quickly bolted down the stairs and was shocked by what he saw. Sherlock. It was impossible. This could be happening. He must have been hallucinating. But Sherlock was still standing there, playing his violin like he had so many years ago. Suddenly the music stopped and Sherlock turned around, smiling.  
"Hello John."

John stood there, completely dumbfounded as he stared at his supposedly dead flatmate. Sherlock moved to open his mouth again, but John moved first, punching Sherlock in the face.  
"You bloody bastard! Three years! How could you let me think that you were dead for three years?" John yelled.

Sherlock had been knocked to the ground and he was holding onto the side of his face that had been hit by John. He pushed himself back up from the ground and looked John directly in the eye, giving him a sympathetic look.  
"It was for your own safety, John. Moriarty's men would have killed you if they had found out that I was alive. So I had to tie off all loose ends, and now it is finally safe. I'm sorry it took so long."  
"You bloody git." John mumbled, before wrapping Sherlock into a tight hug.

Sherlock was slightly taken aback by the hug and he froze in John's hold, but eventually he laughed lightly and hugged John back. He was happy to be back home, happy to finally have his only friend back. However something was still bothering him, and it was pressing at the back of his mind. Who had been the one at St. Bart's? The one who had played back his final conversation with Jim Moriarty. The one who had knocked him unconscious. He wondered if he should tell John. It would be wise, but for some reason he almost felt like he shouldn't. As if it was meant to stay a well kept secret. The rest of the evening was spent as a reunion with the inhabitants of 221B. Mrs. Hudson made tea for Sherlock, John, and herself and they demanded that Sherlock tell them everything that had happened before the fall. How he had done it. Sherlock smirked as he told his tale. Faking his death had been fairly easy, especially with Molly's help. No pulse pumped through him because he used a simple magic trick. Placing a rubber ball underneath his armpit. It cut off his circulation, giving the appearance that he had no pulse. Easy enough trick. John was simply amazed by it. The simplicity of it Sherlock supposed. After a long night of talking and plenty of cups of tea, Sherlock decided that it was time for him to get a proper nights sleep in his own room.

John had left it exactly the same. Untouched just like the rest of the flat, and well taken care of. Sherlock ran his hands over his old possessions, smiling fondly at them. He pulled off his clothing, slipping into his bed naked and wrapped himself in his sheets. He fell into unconsciousness. His dreams were filled with dreams of the fall, of a man named Jim Moriarty who had shot himself in front of Sherlock. When he had woken up, he was breathing heavily and his eyes were wide. Sherlock reached up and felt a single tear trailing down his face. It was odd and Sherlock stared at the now wet spot on his thumb where the tear now rested.

He pushed himself out of bed and wrapped his house coat, wrapping it around him tightly. As he walked out of the room, he noticed that the flat was rather cold. Odd, it hadn't been like this when he had gone to bed. He could see his breath in front of him, and it seemed to act as a mist, spreading and filling the entire room. Sherlock looked around, his own breath now blocking his entire vision. Sherlock looked around the room, unable to see anything. However he began hear a cackling laughter. Sherlock spun around in circles, desperate it seemed to find the source of the laughter. He fell over, his mind spinning and he rested on the floor. He heard footsteps approaching him and he saw them slowly appear through the mist. He looked up from the shiny black shoes and up the pant leg of the crisp Westwood suit. A face was smiling down upon him. The grin was so familiar and so evil. The face moved closer to him and a hand reached down and stroked his cheek. Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut as he heard that familiar dark chuckle fill his ears.

"Remember that the game isn't over, Sherlock." the voice whispered.

Sherlock woke up in a panic, having fallen out of his bed, with the sheets constricting him. He looked up at John, who was kneeling beside him. He sat up slowly, running his hand through his hair that was no damp with sweat.

"Sherlock are you alright?" John asked.

"Of course I am. Why would you ask?" Sherlock lied, even though his heart was beating wildly.

"I'm asking because you were screaming and talking in your sleep."

"What was I say, John?"

"You kept on saying his name, Sherlock." John whispered.

"Whose name?"

"You kept on saying his name. You kept on saying Jim Moriarty."


	3. Admit it

Sherlock had sat in that position all night, staring ahead simply. John had tried to make him move, but everytime he did, Sherlock simply struggled until eventually the man gave up, leaving to go back to his own bed. Sherlock didn't understand what had just happened to him. How he could have possibly dreamed about Jim Moriarty, let alone spoke his name like a mantra in his sleep? No. It was impossible. Well nothing was impossible, but it was highly improbable. When light finally entered his bedroom, partially blinding Sherlock and he realized that it was morning and it was time for him to get up.

He untangled himself from his sheets and duvet, placing them on the bed and slipping into a pair of pants and a shirt, as well as sliding on his housecoat. He walked out into the kitchen and he saw John making tea, a cup set aside for himself and Sherlock. Odd.

"It's been three years John and I've only just returned. Yet you put out my cup as if it is still a habit of yours." Sherlock stated.

John sighed and he poured the water from the kettle into the tea pot. "It's because it is a habit, Sherlock. Despite the fact that you were gone for three years, I still set out tea for you every morning." John said.

Sherlock looked up at John. He had known that John had done this, as soon as he saw the cup on the counter, however it was different hearing John say it. He nodded his head, unsure what was the proper thing to say in order to make things slightly less awkward between himself and John. He grabbed the cup off the counter and he brought the cup over to his chair in the sitting room, taking small sips from it. John came to join him later, keeping his eyes on him.

"Are we going to talk about it?" John asked.

"Talk about what?" Sherlock asked.

"Don't play the role of an idiot, Sherlock. You know what I'm talking about."

"I'm afraid I don't."

"Why were you saying his name in your sleep, Sherlock?"

"I had a dream about him. That's all." Sherlock replied.

"That's all? Why, Sherlock? Why did you have a dream about him?"

"I'm not sure, John. If I knew I wouldn't be as concerned as I am."

"You're concerned? Sherlock Holmes is concerned?" John laughed slightly.

"I am." Sherlock mumbled.

Sherlock didn't talk much after that. He simply sat there and drank his tea. John knew that there was something much bigger going on and the fact that Sherlock refused to share any details about the dream was beginning to alarm him. Sherlock never acted like this, let alone allowed something to effect him this strongly. John had a theory about Sherlock's reaction, but he refused to share it himself with the other man, knowing that he would deny it until the very end.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had migrated back towards his bedroom. He was lying down on his bed, eyes shut as he tried to relive everything he had seen in the dream. Why had that happened? Why? Sherlock watched the ceiling as the room slowly got darker and his eyes began to grow heavy. He was never this tired. Never needed to sleep so much, but perhaps sleep was exactly what he needed. Perhaps he would have another dream that would allow him more insight into what was happening. He allowed himself to fall into an unconcious state once more.

An unrecognizable amount of time passed when Sherlock opened his eyes. The room was dark, excluding a single stream of moonlight that came into the room. Sherlock sat up in his bed, finding his vision to be slightly foggy. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear them. He heard a small tapping sound, faint, yet close to him. He watched as a figure emerged, hidden in the shadows of his room, into the moonlight. Sherlock was only able to make out the suit the man was wearing. One more, it was Westwood. Sherlock felt his heart beginning to pound against his chest and he watched as the figure moved closer to him, crawling onto his bed. Sherlock shifted back, away from the figure, but eventually he ran out of room and eventually slid down to lie back on his pillows. The figure crawled over him and smiled down with that familiar grin.

"Hello, darling. Rumours are going around that you've been dreaming about me. Are you missing me, Sherly?" Jim asked, running a hand down Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock's breath hitched slightly, and both himself and Jim seemed to find the hitch in his breath unexpected, however Jim was rather giddy about it, where as Sherlock was concerned by his reaction. Jim leaned in even closer, running his hand now down the side of Sherlock's face, watching as Sherlock's body trembled unconciously.

"Do you wish me alive, my dear? Do you miss my games?" Jim asked.

Sherlock still said nothing, looking up at Jim with wide eyes. Jim simply tisked at him and leaned down to press his lips against Sherlock's. It felt almost like a brush of wind. That was all. Nothing more than that, before Jim pulled away and Sherlock found himself leaning up to keep contact with those lips, and by the time Sherlock realized his actions, Jim had already analyzed them and was grinning widely.

"Oh, Sherly, you do miss me. Admit it." Jim laughed.

"Stop it." Sherlock ordered.

"Admit it." Jim said once more, leaning down so that his lips were hovering just above Sherlock's own.

"N-No." Sherlock protested.

Sherlock noted the falter in his voice and he grew agitated with himself for showing such weakness in front of the man. Jim sighed, moving back slightly, grabbing onto a piece of cloth.

"Sweep dreams, Sherlock. I'll see you in the afterlife. Think of me often."

Jim pressed the piece of cloth over Sherlock's mouth and the he could smell it as soon as he did. Chlorophorm. Sherlock felt himself sliding into unconciousness and his eyes slipped up and he felt the brush of Jim's lips over his own again and the hand on his cheek. The sleep overcame him instantly and they were the last sensations he felt.

Sherlock sat up in his bed, breathing heavily and with a tear travelling down his face. He reaced up to feel his cheek, where he had dreamed Jim's hand had been and he slowly had it travel to his lips.

"I'll admit it, Jim..." Sherlock whispered. "I miss you."


	4. Alive

Sherlock couldn't fall back to sleep after that. He was frightened. This wasn't him. He'd never experienced anything like this throughout his entire life. The touch of Jim's hand to his cheek. The feeling of his lips brushing against his own. It had all felt so real. Sherlock continued to run his fingers over his lips, a shudder travelling through his body as he remember the feel of the kiss. It made him feel odd. He ran a hand through his hair a few times, shaking them out in frustration, his fingers getting tangled in the curls. He stood up, walking into the sitting room and beginning to pace around the room. He wasn't sure how long he was soing it for, but apparently it was a rather long time because John came down, stopping him in the middle of it, and instead of his being dark outside like it had been when he first went into the room, it was now bright and filled with sunlight.

"You're going to wear a hole into the floor if you keep pacing like that." John laughed, before looking Sherlock over. "You look awful. What happened?"

Sherlock simply shook his head and shut his eyes, beginning to pace again. John rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen, putting on the keetle. Like John would ever know what was happening to him. Wait...Yes he could! John had experience with things like this. With things have to do with sentimental feelings. No. Could that really be what this was about? Sentiment? Towards Jim Moriarty? Yes he had admitted to missing him, but that was different, wasn't it? Sherlock couldn't understand any of this. His head was starting to ache and the more he paced the bigger the ache grew until all he could think about was the pain. He stopped pacing and moved to sit down in his chair. He closed his eyes and he felt his skin begin to itch, false tingles began to spread over his body and in the back of his head he felt it. The itch. It was similar to the feeling he had whenever he was left for a long enough amount of time without a case. The need growing inside of him for it. Cocaine. He knew he shouldn't, that it would be a mistake later on, but for now, he knew it would make him feel better. Make him more alert. His eyes flicked between his coat and John. He stood up quickly and ran into his room, changing into a different set of clothes, beore slipping on his jacket.

"Where are you going?" John shouted from the kitchen.

"Out!" Sherlock responded, running out of the flat and down onto the street.

He looked around in both directions, moving quickly to the left. It shouldn't be that hard to find it. Though Sherlock couldn't be entirely sure. It had been a long time since he'd taken cocaine. The itch had never been this bad. Never had it been so strong and so potent. Sherlock made his way down to Camden Street, knowing that there must be somebody down there who would have what he needed. Sherlock walked through the crowds of people, shopping and picking up stupid little trinkets that they would use once and then abandon. Finally, he found it. Sherlock remembered going here when he had been younger. An abandoned flat off of Camden street where an old dealer of Sherlock's did most of his work, if you could really call it that. Sherlock slipped inside of the old building, shutting the door behind him as he made his way up the creaking steps. Sherlock remembered that there was a hole in the 4th step and he quickly stepped over it, before running up the rest of the stairs. Upon entering the small flat, Sherlock realized that nothing had changed. The room was still a dull blue colour, with the paint peeling off the wall and the floorboards were a washed out dark brown that was splintering up towards the ceiling. There were only two windows in the flat that peered down into Camden Market. However, the one difference from Sherlock's memories and the present, was the man sitting in the corner of the flat. He was wearing a pair of jeans, a dark black colour that contrasted with the paleness of his hands that were drumming almost nervously against his knee caps. He had a black hood pulled up over his head and the sleeves of the sweater pulled up around his elbows. The man looked over, but Sherlock was unable to see his face, but he hardly cared. The man stood up and walked over to Sherlock, holding a syringe in his hand. No words were exchanged between them. Sherlock simply rolled up the sleeve of his right arm, holding it out to the other man. The man stepped closer and he reached out to wrap a rubber band around Sherlock's arm. He flicked the needle three times and slowly pressed it into Sherlock's vein with extreme precision. Sherlock allowed his eyes to flutter shut as he felt the cocaine soloution being injected into his veins. The effect was instantenous. He felt the rush and he suddenly became alert, making note of everything around him, his mind picking up every aspect of the room and the man infront of him, despite the fact that he still couldn't see him. He feels the needle being pulled out of his skin and he fell back against the wall, allowing his eyes to fall shut. He began to ramble, his words jumbled and fast and the man came up to him, placing a single finger over his lips.

"Hush." the man's voice seemed to ring in Sherlock's ears and it sounded so familiar to him, yet he couldn't place it.

Sherlock looked up at the man as he placed the finger over his lips and he closed his mouth. His mind was still spinning and he was still unable to see the man's face, but for some reason that didn't matter to him still. Sherlock reached a hand down into his pocket to pull out the money he had in order to pay for the cocaine, but the man simply stopped his hand just as it was about to pull out the money. Sherlock was confused, and his face conveyed that expression quite clearly, but the man simply laughed.

"So pathetic. So oblivious, so naive. You're going to die again if you keep this up." the man said, running his hand through Sherlock's hair, before turning and leaving the flat.

Sherlock watched the man leave, trying to go after him. How did he know that he had died? Who was this man? Sherlock stood up quickly and moved to run after him, but as soon as he stood up, he felt light headed. The world around him began to spin and he fell onto the floor, the world around him slowly turning black.

When Sherlock next awoke, he was surrounded by white. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes, and felt a slightly painful tug on his arm. He looked over and noticed that it was attatched to an intravenous tube. Once his eyes cleared a bit more, he looked around the room and saw John, Lestrade, and Mycroft sitting around the bed. None of them looked particulary pleased.

"What the bloody hell were you thinking, Sherlock?" John shouted.

"I recommend that you not speak so loudly, Dr. Watson. My brother here is still recovering."

"It's his fault he's in here in the first place." Lestrade stated. "I can't believe he's even alive! He jumped off a building and he lived!"

"Did you really think I would die, Detective Inspector? You really shouldn't doubt me." Sherlock laughed slightly.

"This isn't humourous, Sherlock. The first time you leave the flat since you've come back from being dead and you go out and buy drugs. You were clean, Sherlock! Wait...you were clean, right?" John asked.

"I was clean. I can't explain to you why I did it, nor do I have any reason to. It is none of your business." Sherlock responded.

"Whoever gave you the drug, Brother, also slipped a sedative into it." Mycroft stated.

"Did they? Well, that's rather interesting. Though the man did know about the fall." Sherlock answered.

"Who was he?" John asked.

"I didn't see him. I was more focused on the cocaine than the person giving it to me." Sherlock said, glaring at John.

"Dr. Watson, Detective Inspector, would you mind if I had a word with my brother alone?" Mycroft asked, never breaking eye contact with Sherlock.

They both simply nodded and got up to leave the hospital room. Sherlock watched them leave and Sherlock looked back over to Mycroft and scowled. He looked back down to focus on what he was wearing, one of those annoyingly white hospital gowns and he became rather annoyed by it.

"Do you think you could get me some other clothes? These are tedious and uncomfortable." Sherlock said in distaste.

"No. I have some information to share with you, Brother. However, we needed privacy because I do not want DI Lestrade or Dr. Watson to influence your decision on how we are going to approach the matter at hand."

"I'm listening." Sherlock responded.

"The death of James Moriarty had been confirmed upon finding his body on top of St. Bartholowmew's hospital, shortly after your body had been discovered and placed in the morgue. I had them run every test done upon it and all came back positive in confirming that it was indeed Moriarty. For three years, none of us suspected anything. Not until Dr. Watson told me of your...paranoid tendencies involving dreams with James Moriarty. Again, I turned out with nothing. Until shortly after you were brought here." Mycroft said.

"What? What was it?" Sherlock asked, sitting up and leaning towards Mycroft.

Mycroft pulled his phone out of the inner pocket of his suit and he handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock opened it up and looked at the messages that appeared in his phone. One appeared from a blocked number.

_I've missed playing these games, Ice Man. Sherlock will wake up soon. Tell him I've missed him so much since he died. I'm back, and the games beginning. JM xx_

"James Moriarty is still alive."


	5. An Unexpected Visitation

Everyone was over reacting. Completely. Yes, Jim was still alive and everyone was seeing it as a negative. Sherlock was thrilled. The idea that the man wasn't really dead filled him up with a sense of joy that nearly had him flying out of his hospital bed. He would have done it too, had it not been for Mycroft calling in the doctors and nurses to make sure that he stayed exactly where he was. He wanted to leave. Wanted to find the criminal he had mourned. The only one whose mind could come anywhere close to his own. The one who played all the right games and he was finally back, and Sherlock was stuck here, while Jim got to go around and play his wonderful and oh so brilliant games. John had decided that Sherlock should be kept under surveillence. After the 'stunt' he had pulled with the cocaine, John didn't trust him on his own. At least not now. He was craving it, itching for it and he couldn't deny that he wanted it. More than anything. Nobody was in the room now, but he knew that people were waiting just outside so that he wouldn't be able to leave and he was on an overly high floor of this building. Though Sherlock had survived his last fall of the roof of a hospitla, he was not entirely sure he could survive it again. He tapped his fingers anxiously against the bed, shutting his eyes as his fingers moved in the rhythm of Vivaldi's Four Seasons: Winter. His favourite out of them. He could almost hear it in his head as he shut his eyes. He was almost done with the piece when suddenly a loud bang resounded in the room.

"Oh thank heavens you're alright, darling." Jim said from the door, a worried expression on his face as he walked quickly over to Sherlock, pressing his lips firmly over Sherlock's.

The look of surprise that crossed Sherlock's face as Jim kissed him was not unexpected. Of course he was surprised. Not only had it been three years since he had seen the criminal, but the first time actually seeing him directly, when he was not looking for cocaine, and having him kiss him was completely terrifying and yet erotic in a sense. Sherlock allowed his eyes to fall shut once more as he kissed Jim back, wrapping one arm around his neck. Jim pulled away rather quickly however after that, a small smirk on his face as he turned around to face the nurse who was at the door.

"Sir, you can't be in here. We have been given direct orders not to allow anyone into this room aside from Dr. John Watson, Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade. You have to leave." She ordered.

"Please, please. He's my fiancee. We've been together for years. They disapprove of us and are trying to keep us apart. Please let me see him. Tell her, Sherlock." Jim said, turning around to look at Sherlock with a desperate look in his eyes, but he could see the malice lying behind them.

"It's true. He is my fiancee." Sherlock lied as he looked at the nurse. "Please allow him to stay."

"Alright..." she said. "Just press the button if you need anything, Mr. Holmes."

The nurse quickly retreated out of the room and Jim's facade dropped instantly as he body relaxed and he smirked widely at Sherlock. He straightened out his t-shirt quickly, tightly fit and wrinkled slightly at the bottom and smoothed out his jeans. His outfit similar to the first time Sherlock had met him as Jim from IT.

"Thank you do much for playing along, Sherly. I must say, you kissed me as though we were lovers. Any secret desires you would like to bring to the surface, love?" Jim asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock.

"Hardly. Could you not just send me a text to tell me you're alive? Rather than inject me with cocaine and slip a sedative into it?" Sherlock asked.

"No! Of course not! That would be so dull and you know how much I hate dull things, Sher-Lock." Jim said, clicking his tongue on the c.

"I must admit, I am relieved that you are alive." Sherlock stated.

"Oh I know you are, darling. Rumour has it that you have been dreaming about me." Jim's grin spread across his face.

Sherlock's eyes must have widened dramatically as his heart began to pound in his chest at the idea of Jim possibly being able to know about that. He had only ever mentioned it to John. Only John and yet some how this man who had just come back from the dead, seemed to know about. Jim pouted slightly and placed a hand on Sherlock's cheek, running his thumb over his bottom lip.

"I was only teasing, Sherlock. But now I can see that I was right. How lovely." Jim smirked. "Was I being naughty?"

"Hardly." Sherlock stated.

"Oh? How boring." Jim pouted once more.

"Almost seems as if you were hoping it would be something more erotic, James." Sherlock said, using Jim's full name as emphasis.

"What if I was, Sherly?" Jim asked, leaning in closer to him. "What would you do then?"

Sherlock kept his eyes locked on Jim's, breathing heavily as the criminal moved closer to him. He licked over his now suddenly dry lips and he knew that Jim was noticing his reactions. He moved in to lean closer, his lips just brushing against Jim's ever so slightly, before that ringtone came on. That 1977 Bee Gee's song that Sherlock was slightly beginning to loathe. Jim pulled away from him, the widest grin spreading on his lips.

"So sorry, doll. Only a moment." Jim said, answering the phone. "I see. Very well. Have the car around front." he hung up the phone. "Sorry, love. Your annoying brother has received knowledge that I am in the building. I must go quickly. Be seeing you."

Jim quickly leaned in, kissing Sherlock on the cheek lightly before running out of the room quickly. Sherlock felt his hand ball up into a fist on the sheets and he was breathing heavily as he kept his eyes locked on the door. Anger coursed through him at first at the idea of his brother being the reason for Jim having to depart so quickly, but now that he thought about it, he couldn't help but to smile and laugh. Oh, yes. Jim Moriarty was most definately alive.


	6. Experiment

. It didn't take long after Jim's departure for their to be police surrounding the entire building and Lestrade coming into his room, demanding answers to questions that Sherlock couldn't help but to roll his eyes over. Of course he wouldn't answer them truthfully and he was talented enough to make Lestrade believe him, if only temporarily. It was then decided by John and Mycroft that it would be best to move him back to 221B. More privacy and a less likely chance that Jim would break in. Sherlock couldn't help but to laugh at that. The criminal could get in anywhere he wanted. It would be simple for him and the fact that John and Mycroft thought Sherlock was 'safe' at 221B was completely ridiculous. But he supposed that he couldn't expect more from simple minds. He now sat in his chair at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was downstairs baking some cookies based on what Sherlock's senses were picking up. John was sitting across from him, laptop open, but nothing being typed. "Shut down the laptop if you're not going to do anything. It's irritating." "Withdrawls still making you a prat, I see." John commented. "If you would give me the cocaine, we wouldn't have this problem." Sherlock stated. "Do you really believe that I am going to give you cocaine because you annoy me?" "Come on, John." Sherlock whined. "Indulge me this once!" "This once?" John scoffed. "John!" Sherlock shouted. "This is different! I need this!" "I'm not giving you cocaine, Sherlock. You can just forget it." "I bet I could get Jim to bring some here." Sherlock mumbled. "Do you think that's funny, Sherlock? Do you really?" John asked, shutting his laptop and standing up. "Oh good, you've finally shut it." "This isn't a joke, Sherlock. Jim Moriarty is back on the street and you seem to be celebrating his return!" "Perhaps I am, John. Did you ever think of that?" "W-What? How could you even say that?" "We're just alike, John. He's able to grasp my mind and challenge me in a way that nobody else can. Of course I'm thrilled that he is alive. It means that the game is not over." "How can you even say that Sherlock? After everything he has put you through? Everything he has put all of us through? He was willing to kill all of your friends in order to get you to commit suicide!" "He knew I would survive. He counted on it." "You don't know that, Sherlock!" John shouted, before letting out an angry sigh. "For three years I regretted my last words to you in person. Do you remember them?" Sherlock nodded his head. "You called me a machine." "It seems I was right with that description." John said, before turning around to go up to his room. Sherlock remained in his chair, looking after John and letting out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair as he stood up and walked over to his room. He settled down on the bed and leaned back against the pillows, eyes falling shut as he tried to think. He thought back to the moment in the hospital, when Jim's lips had been so close to his own and how angry he had been at first when Jim had pulled away. He even thought of the moment when Jim had kissed him. Though it seemed to Sherlock that the only reason Jim had done it was because he had wanted to get into Sherlock's hospital room. It was odd for Sherlock because for some reason he wanted it to be because Jim had wanted to do it of his own free will. He reached a hand p to his lips, trailing them over the creases and feeling the slight dampness. Why was a kiss so important? So intimate? It shouldn't be. Especially not to a person like Sherlock. He imagined that if he kissed someone else, it would not feel nearly close to what he had felt when Jim had kissed him and that thought alone scared Sherlock greatly. He was so wrapped up in thoughts, so deep within his own mind that he didn't hear the window to his bedroom slide open, didn't hear the footsteps move across his room and over to his bed. It was only when the weight shifted on the mattress that his eyes shot open and he was met with those familiar dark eyes. "Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, keeping his eyes locked with those dark ones, though he was sure he was the only one who knew their true golden colour. "So rude, Sherlock." Jim chided. "Perhaps I just wanted to say hello. I missed you." "It was not too long ago that you saw me." "It was too long for me." he pouted. "They're trying to seperate us." "With good reason." "Good reason? It is hardly good reason! Think of what our minds could do and Mycroft and Johnny-boy are preventing it!" "Our minds could never blend. We're enemies, you and I." "Oh, is that the label you have come up with to describe our relationship? Pity, I would have come up with something so much better." "Such as?" Sherlock asked. "Well, Sherlock..." Jim said, leaning down the slightest bit closer to Sherlock. "That all depends on what you're willing to do." Sherlock kept his eyes locked with Jim's glaring at him slightly as he tried to control his body's reactions, not wanting to show Jim exactly what he was feeling and he could tell that Jim was doing the same. He could see the smirk growing upon the criminal's face and he was interested by it, wondering that if Jim were made of marble, would that smirk even be possible to carve. Would the stone be able to hold the true genius that lay beneath those eyes. Could stone even possibly show who Jim really was? Would anyone other than Sherlock be able to see it? "Have I lost you, darling?" Jim asked, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts. Sherlock could feel the other's breath on his lips as he spoke, the heat of it resting on his lips and Sherlock had to stop himself from reacting to it. Stop himself from moving that final distance between them to test his theory and see if the kiss meant more to Sherlock then just a simple touch of skin. "You're making me concerned, Sherlock." Jim commented. Sherlock still couldn't stop thinking. His gaze moved down to those lips and he was so transfixed on them. How they felt, he could remember it so well and could feel every crack and every line of Jim's lips as if even now they were still pressed to his lips. He wanted to feel it again and he sat up slightly, bringing himself closer to Jim, but he still did not look up at his eyes. "Oh, darling. Is that really what you want?" "You wouldn't know what I want." Sherlock whispered. "I think I'm the only one who knows." he whispered back, bringing himself down just the slightest bit closer. Just an inch. One inch seperated their lips and Sherlock couldn't control how heavy his breathing was now at the pure anticipation of it. It was an experiment, he kept repeating in his head and he looked up at Jim's eyes and he could see the malice that lied behind them, along with the interest. It was a look that Sherlock had come to recognize but he had never thought that it would be in a situation like this. In the one moment, their eyes locked together, Jim leaned down that one more inch and sealed their lips together. The feeling that spread through Sherlock's body was one of complete relief and satisfaction and he let out a heavy sigh, allowing his eyes to fall shut as Jim's lips moved against his own. Their was no hesitation and Sherlock kissed back quickly. Jim's hand moved under his back, propping Sherlock up slightly until the hand weaved it's way into his hair, holding him still and making sure that he could not move. The kiss that Sherlock had deemed as an experiment proved to be bother a success and a failure. He had been right in his hypothesis when he stated that perhaps this is meant more to Sherlock than a touch of skin, but he had lost when he realized that this meant that he carried sentiment towards the man he had grown to consider his enemy, Jim Moriarty. Still though, he continued to kiss Jim back and when he felt Jim pull away, releasing his lips, Sherlock tried to move forward to reconnect them, but Jim's hold in his hair held him still. "That was quite interesting, wasn't it, Sherlock?" Sherlock's only reply was to lock eyes with Jim once more. "Now I'll ask you one time, Pretty Holmes." Jim purred, leaning down once more, resting above his lips again. "What other names could you possibly think of to better suit the status of our relationsip?"


	7. Domestic

Sherlock looked up at Jim and he felt a shiver travel throughout his whole body as Jim made no move and he himself gave no answer. The status of their relationship in Sherlock's mind was still that of enemies, but could they perhaps add a new element to it? The smirk on the criminal's face never left and Sherlock wished that he could somehow capture the moment forever. He tried to ignore the question, but Jim would have none of it, pulling away and pouting as he looked down at Sherlock. "Tut, tut, darling. You haven't answered my question." Jim chided. "What does my answer matter to you?" "It means more than you could ever realize." the criminal responded with a rather serious look on his face that startled Sherlock slightly. Jim had never looked so serious before and Sherlock attempted to read more from him, but the other had quickly disguised the emotion and sat back on his legs, allowing Sherlock to sit up slowly. He ran a hand through his hair and he shifted in his chair. Jim made note of it and he grinned, before standing up. Sherlock looked after him curiously, but the man made no move to leave the flat, he was just walking around. Sherlock stood up, straightening out his clothing and he walked into the kitchen, where the remains of an experiment lay scattered on the table. He needed a distraction. Both from Jim and his withdrawls. He felt his hands beginning to tremble as he picked up his beaker, studying the content, a diluted concentration of acetic acid. Though diluted, it was still strong and due to the shaking of his hands, some of the contents spilling out onto his hand. A hiss escaped his lips and he dropped the beaker onto the floor, causing it to shatter. He let out a groan of frustration and he bent down on the ground to pick it up, cutting his hands on the sharp edges, hands still shaking as he lifted them up and saw the blood dripping from his hands, seeping into the edge of his sleeves. He heard footsteps come close to him and he looked up to see Jim looming over him and he bent down in front of him, examining his hands. Some of the blood spread onto his Westwood suit and he sighed. "Tsk, tsk." Jim said, chiding Sherlock once more and he stood up, looking over the blood collecting in Sherlock's hand, before he moved away, going into the bathroom and into the medicine cabinet to find some isopropyl rubbing alcohol and some cloth to wipe off the blood with. Sherlock's hands were still trembling and he licked over his lips, running a hand over his face, forgetting about the blood on his hand and when Jim turned back around, he let out another sigh as he walked back over to the man. "Withdrawls too much, darling?" he asked. Sherlock couldn't even focus on him, mind swimming as he trembled and he could taste blood on his lips and it was strange how it didn't bother him; the taste. Jim noticed this and he brought his thumb up to run across Sherlock's cheek, the smirk back in place as he leaned in and kissed Sherlock, the taste of blood lingering in his mouth, before he pulled away and Sherlock looked up at him, rather dazed. Jim pulled back and he wiped the blood off of Sherlock's face, before he pressed the rubbing alcohol to Sherlock's hands, cleaning the wounds. The detective's hands were trembling as he held them and he reached into his pocket, pulling out the syringe he kept in there and he held it in front of Sherlock's face, who eyes widened in turn as he saw the syringe. "What would you be willing to give me in exchange for this?" Jim asked, holding it just out of the detective's reach as he tried to grab it. "You know that I'd give you anything. You don't need to tempt me with cocaine." Sherlock responded without thinking. The criminal's eyes widened as he heard the words Sherlock spoke and that was really all the answer he needed and he grabbed onto the other man's arm, ripping the sleeve of his shirt and soon, Sherlock found himself in bliss, back resting against the floor and he felt Jim's hand running through his hair as he sat with him through his hair and the whole act in Sherlock's mind was perhaps even more sentimental than the kisses they'd shared. He tried to speak, but Jim placed a hand over his mouth. "Just stay quiet. Wait until your mind is back to it's normal, clever self before you jump to any conclusions." He could only nod his head as he shut his eyes and very soon, he found himself asleep. When next he woke, he was in his bed, the sheets wrapped around him tightly and he sat up, feeling a slightly ache in his bones. He felt a slight sting in his hands and he looked down to see the cuts on them, frowning as he remembered the incident with the beakers and how Jim had been able to give him exactly what he needed and how there was no bribery to do it. Jim made him do nothing in order to get it. Sherlock looked over to his nightstand and saw a note resting there. I still expect an answer. JM xx Sherlock couldn't help but to laugh as he read over the note, knowing very well that this was all getting a tad bit domestic, but he couldn't find it in himself to mind. He heard the door to the flat open and he assumed that it was either John or Mrs. Hudson, and judging by the two sets of gasps he heard, he knew it to be both. The door to his room opened soon afterward and they both stood there and they both looked rather cross. "What did you do to my bloody floor, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "I can't be bothered to think of what you mean." "There is a hole wearing through the floorboards, Sherlock. You dropped acid onto the ground and just went to sleep, not even cleaning it up?" John asked. He was confused for a moment before a smile stretched across his lips and he looked away from the two of them, before he began to laugh and this seemed to anger John and Mrs. Hudson more, and they both turned away from him. Domestic was something, Sherlock believed, he might be able to grow accustomed to.


End file.
